Stuck Voyage of 20's

The crowd at the college stadium roared as the final buzzer rang. BHU had won again. Dhruv's teammates clapped him on the back, someone tousled his hair, and someone else handed him a bottle of water. He smiled, even laughed. The kind of laugh that doesn't touch the eyes.

He sat on the bench, unwrapping the tape from his ankle slowly. The injury hadn't fully healed, but he played through it anyway. It was easier to feel physical pain than the ache gnawing inside his chest.

"Bro, after-party tonight at Jai's flat. You in?" Pratyush asked, wiping sweat from his forehead.

Dhruv nodded out of habit. "Yeah, sure."

But even as he agreed, he knew he wouldn't go.

---

His dorm room smelled faintly of balm and detachment. He changed into his hoodie, tossed the medal into a drawer already cluttered with old certificates, and sank into the bed.

He stared at the ceiling for a long time. Then pulled his phone out.

No messages. No missed calls. Nothing.

He hadn't texted Avantika either. He told himself he was giving her space. That maybe she needed time. But deep down, he knew the truth — he was scared.

Scared that if he reached out, she wouldn't reply.

Or worse — that she would, and he wouldn't know what to say back.

---

He scrolled through his gallery and stopped at a voice note from months ago — Avantika's laughter mid-sentence. She had been mocking his "over-serious game face," saying he looked like a constipated tiger.

He played it.

Her voice echoed in the quiet room, and something in his chest tightened.

It wasn't just nostalgia.

It was regret.

For not saying enough.

For not asking more.

For not holding on when she started slipping away.

---

That night, he sat at his study desk and opened his journal — something he barely touched anymore. But tonight, words spilled out like they'd been waiting behind a dam.

> "I don't know when we stopped talking like we used to.

Maybe it wasn't one moment. Maybe it was a hundred small ones —

A text left on read. A call missed and never returned.

A smile forced. A truth swallowed."

He paused, tapping the pen against his lip.

> "I thought silence would protect us from saying the wrong things.

But maybe silence is what ruined us.

Maybe I should've just told her that I missed her even when we were standing next to each other."

---

His phone buzzed — a message from the team's group chat. Someone posted a picture from the match. He was in the frame, fist in the air, victorious.

He looked at the photo.

Then opened Instagram.

Searched her name.

Her profile was private. He still followed her.

Her last post was two weeks ago. A black and white shot of clouds with the caption:

"Some skies stay overcast, even without the rain."

Dhruv stared at it, rereading the words like they might mean something more.

He opened their chat window. It was filled with old conversations, memes, short rants, unfinished arguments.

He started typing:

"Avantika…"

Paused.

Backspaced.

Typed again.

"I don't know what we are anymore. But I miss you."

Paused.

Backspaced again.

Locked his phone and tossed it onto the bed.

---

The door creaked open. His roommate, Rishi, walked in with a leftover samosa and a Coke can.

"You skipping Jai's party?" he asked.

"Yeah. Not in the mood."

Rishi plopped down on the other bed. "You've been off, man. Like, really off. This about that girl again?"

Dhruv didn't answer.

"I mean, you don't have to talk about it. But... sometimes you gotta stop playing defense in real life too, y'know?"

Dhruv let out a dry laugh. "Not everything is a game, bro."

"Exactly. That's why you can't always wait for the 'perfect' move. Sometimes you just say what you feel and see what happens."

Rishi got up, dropped the empty can in the bin, and added as he walked out, "Else you'll keep losing without even realizing you're playing."

---

The room felt heavier after that.

Dhruv picked up his phone again.

Opened the chat window.

Stared at it.

Not a single message sent in weeks.

He wasn't waiting for her anymore. He was waiting for himself to grow up and say what needed to be said.

He typed:

> "I don't know how to start this.

I don't even know if you want to hear anything from me.

But I haven't been okay.

And pretending we're fine — that we just drifted apart naturally — it's a lie I can't keep living.

I miss you. Not just the memories — I miss the you that told me the truth even when it hurt.

And I miss the me that didn't hesitate to listen."

He didn't send it.

But this time, he didn't delete it either.

He saved it to drafts.

Baby steps.

---

Outside, the world moved — people laughed, buses honked, someone was probably falling in love and someone else breaking apart.

Inside, Dhruv sat in silence — the kind that wasn't empty, but full of things he should've said.

---